Of Love And Other Poisons
by laudanum86
Summary: An inquisitive Shadow Thief with penchant for troubles. A rueful Bhaalspawn, the renowned heroine hiding her dark vices. Magical goods of dubious quality that prove to work - in the least way expected. Lies and crashed loyalties. It can't end well, can it?
1. Chapter 1: Prologue

My first story published :) Based more or less loosely on BIOWARE's Baldur's Gate 2: Shadows of Amn, IMHO the best game ever!

I just loved the Shadow Thieves plot, and Gaelan Bayle was my fav character so far ( heh, this is probably quite controversial confession, seeing as he's annoying the hell out of most people... oh well ^^) I can sure imagine there could be much more to him than just standing there like a pole, waiting for CHARNAME's gold, especially if he took some more personal liking to her.

There's no romancing in this chapter, not yet.

Also, I did my best to hunt down mistakes in text, but english is not my native language and I'll be sure grateful if someone could point them to me. :)

Please read and reviev, hope you'll enjoy it!

* * *

"I swear by the gods, one more time I catch you ogle my tits and you'll regret your mother didn't dump you into the river."

Rather hastily, Gaelan Bayle put away his spy-glasses.

Just as expected, he found himself looking straight into girl's dark-framed, blue eyes under fiercely furrowed brows. From a close-up. The stare she was giving him could have curdled milk.

Gaelan grinned.

"Hawkeye dear, ain't no reason to get all pissy, or is there?"- he drawled, his grin turning brazen just as Hawkeye's jaw set tighter- "Takin' as I already seen yer tits, an' a lot more times than I actually- Ouch!"

Rogue hissed and recoiled from a blow- earning couple of muterred curses as he did- then touched his side. Hawkeye's piercing gaze didn't waver, she casually rubbed her elbow.

"Stove it. Or next time, it will be blade I stick in you."

Bayle huffed, biting back another crude remark. Instead, he raised spy-glasses back to his eyes, ostentatiously looking in direction opposite from one-time street wench, currently a scout for the Shadow Thieves and his working partner.

In many ways, Hawkeye was a fine lass. Especially if one could overlook her haughty attitude - he generously chosen noblewoman's upbringing to blame - or open disdain she has been showing towards male kind - to which Gaelan sadly and self-admittedly contributed - or the emotional detachment he found downright disturbing.

He couldn't honestly say if he had ever seen the girl laugh.

Or cry, for that matter.

All in all, he had come to knew Hawkeye well enough to understand that when cranky, she was best left alone.

Meaning now.

But then, he thought glancing around, who wasn't cranky?

The strange guild war stuff of late left everyone on the edge and wary, compromising integrity of what even in a high days wasn't exactly trusting bunch. First came the wave of unexplained dissapearances, then whole groups of long-time members switching sides, and no one ever did as much as see the enemy. Gaelan heard the rumours about the other guild's agents coming out of mist at darkest hours of night and dissolving in a thin air when approached.

It was like the Shadow Thieves were presented with a set of new rules they had no idea of and got caught in the game they thought their own.

Then, they found a body dumped carelessly into sewers. One grim discovery lead to another. Soon, they come across entrance to subterrean complex, disguised in an ordinary manhole. Here, in the very heart of their city - and there wasn't many things going on in Athkatla without the Guild knowing, if not participating.

All the while, just a few feet below the ground unnatural malice lurked.

Attempts to infiltrate hidden dungeon failed miserably, as no one sent in have ever returned. So, the jig was called, and here they were.

Rogue groaned inaudibly.

If there was something worse than sitting on the arse and pretending all was nice and dandy, this was it.

Waiting. Waiting for something to happen. It was killing him.

"Oy! Keep yer bloomin' boot away from my nose, will ya?"

Gaelan winced, unsuccesfuly trying to straighten his numb leg. Tingling in the ankle has grown infuriating. He felt as if he shoved it right in the mound full of ants.

"Sorry, sorry."

Halfling pickpocket, invisible on the other side of room, huffed and jostled.

"Don't be sorry, 'll rest me ya keep it t' yerself."

"Ye're smaller than I, Shiona. Can't ye move?"

"Lemme see... Uhm, no way? And don't be pickin' on me just 'cause ye're overgrown an' all. Size ain't matters."

"It does."- said Orm, somewhere to the back- " Tis' wha' wimmin tells me."

Both Shiona and Hawkeye snorted derisively. Then, Hawkeye muttured something nasty about big cocks, tiny brains and men in general. Gaelan had just enough sense not to comment.

Orm, dumb as he was, did not.

"Ye can sure knows somethin' in th' matter, isnnae? What wit' ye bein' whore an' all."

"I can surely tell you that no self-respecting woman, whore or not, would ever touch you with as much as an end of broomstick. Unless when intending to shove it right where the sun never shines. Oh, and I almost forgot: go fuck yourself, Orm."

Shiona actually giggled.

Orm lapsed in tongue-tied silence.

Hawkeye smirked, obviously intending to continue.

Gaelan felt corners of his mouth twitch, then realised how very much Orm's boorish remark resembled his own and scowled instead.

"Quit bickering."- said Arcanis Gath, uncomfortably close to his ear- "Focus. Now."

Rogue nodded. It was first time since morning the senior assassin spoke, but it has proven to be enough. Hawkeye shut up without as much as a slant glance. She just shifted to her knees, chewing on end of her braid.

Someone swore. Flies buzzed sleepily.

Sighs and grunts coming at regular intervals from every corner of the room ranged from bored to irritated to impatient to dangerously bored, irritated, and impatient.

It was a wee bit risky business, to force two assassins - who liked solitary jobs and disliked each other- an enforcer thug about as bright and subtle as a bucket of coal, a chirpy cutpurse and three sharp-shooter scouts, one of them being apparently too close her moonblood for comfort - into company for any prolonged time.

To have them huddled together in a musty, dingy store-room with slits for windows -reminescent of tower's past purpose - all in unusually hot spring day and in given circumstances, was ever so worse.

After few hours, tension was almost tangible.

If not for Gath's silent, commanding presence, there would be flying fists and blackened eyes and teeth knocked out, sure as gold.

Gaelan rubbed his forehead, and looked on the street below.

Waukeen's Promenade was busy like always, constant stream of travellers pouring in through city gates, guards shouting, people milling on the main square and in narrow alleyways and among shopping stalls piled high with wares brought from every corner of Faerun. He could hear city-crier, voice already hoarse; calls of street peddlers, selling anything from cheap jewellery to hot butter shortbreads to fake charms and love-potions; fruit vendors praising their oranges and grapes. Once or twice, he thought he caught a glympse of cloaked figure as it melted into tenement's shadow, then another one dropping off the roof, just to disappear behind potter's stall. Seagulls hovered high above, shrieking, almost invisible against sky's faded-blue backdrop.

Rogue sighed, the sound that was all in one bored, irritated and impatient. He longed for the streets and being part of the crowd.

"Something's up. See? Over there."

Hawkeye leaned closer to him, stray wisp of her dark hair tickling his neck. She smelled of liquorice and sweat. Mostly sweat. Gaelan felt his own tunic, drenched and sticky under armoured leather jacket, then eagerly looked in pointed direction.

Brief rush of excitment died down at once.

"Nay, they be no our lads."- he shook his head- "But somethin' ratty goin' on in that new circus place. Whatever it is, seems big. Whole bunch o' soldiermen under their tent."

"I never been to the circus."- Hawkeye said suddenly, eyes squinted and a few shades lighter in glaring sun- "My mother, she used to say it was good for keeping serfs happy, but nothing else."

"Give 'em bread an' plays, bet that's what yer ma said, aye? Heard that sayin', too."- Gaelan shifted awkwardly. As a rule, Hawkeye have not talked about her more distant past- "I never been to th' circus, either."

He smiled as he continued.

"But once when I was a kid, I managed t' get me arse soundly kicked for tryin'. Swear, couldn't sit up for three days! The beastmaster caught me sneakin' 'round the cages after closing time an' then, well."

Hawkeye raised one eyebrow.

"Ah yes, I wager he must have mistaken you for a runaway monkey."

Rogue's grin turned wry. He shrugged.

"Know what, Hawky, sometimes I think I could really like ye. Were ye not such a mean, mean bitch."

"Same goes to you, but at least I'm a pretty bitch."

"Coo! I be thinkin' meself quite a looker, too, so we're even."

"We are most certainly not. Sadly, whoever told you so was either blind or a liar. Ever so sorry, friend."

"Me, too."- Shiona chimed in -"An' if I hear ya sayin' the 'c' word again, I gonna kick you. Just a friendly warnin', Bayle, is all."

With yet another shrug, Gaelan turned away.

Crowd on the Promenade thickened considerably. There were some definite troubles in the circus tent, taking as by now it was surrounded by armed soldiers. Near the north gate, argument between newly arrived calishyte caravan's overseer and city guard ensued. Judging from the both men's wild gesticulation, neither was going to step back. Under marquee and accompanied by harem girls, fat master of said caravan enjoyed his waterpipe, clearly unabashed by all the fuss. Rogue's attention shifted briefly from fully loaded wagons of merchandise to man's concubines - dusky-skinned, graceful and dressed in rich silk robes.

Smug lucky bastard.

Air was hot, undisturbed by as much as slightest breeze.

Inside of the warehouse didn't provide neither shade nor relief from unbearable heat, and after several hours reeked as bad as thieves huddled on the floor did - of sweat, piss and stale breaths, and spilled watered wine.

Gaelan pawed around in search of flask, but it wasn't there. Someone snatched it, of course. Mouth dry as parchment, he could feel saltiness of blood where his lip cracked.

Someone sniffed close by.

"Cheer up, Shiona."- rogue dug in his pocket and handed her ruffled packet of fruit drops.

"Uh-huh, sure. Whatever. Thanks."

Halfling girl, squatting on her heels to the left looked like red-faced, weary-eyed shadow of her usual merry self. Even her curls hung limp and flat like laundry. She took offered sweets without as much as nod, her gaze focused on something far away.

Lenses in his spy-glasses turned cloudy with condensation.

He wiped them with a sleeve and tried to suck at remaining fruit drops, but they tasted off, cloying.

Suddenly, skin on his bare arms crawled and raised into goose-bumps even though the temperature didn't drop by a single degree.

Gaelan crouched, grabbing his crossbow just as strange surge of power rippled through the afternoon stillness, the thing so long brewing made real. The very ground was starting to shake.

_Whoah._

"Whoah."- Hawkeye said, eerily echoing his thoughts - "The jig's up."

He nodded.

It was going to be bad.

For one awfully long moment, rogue wondered if the tower containing warehouse they occupied will last through the quake. Several feet below, people scattered in all directions, running like panicked sheep.

Air warped, shimmering with ghost of colours. Gaelan breathed in sharply metallic, ozone scent which was the smell of forbidden magic.

He could see cloaked figures of Guild's assassins now as they moved, half-hidden behind the pillars and among marketstalls, closing in. Carefully, ever so slowly.

"Steady, lads. Wait for a sign."- Arcanis Gath murmured -"Steady..."

For once quiet, focused, their fingers on triggers, the marksmen waited.

Wrought iron lid covering the entrance to dungeon lifted with what Gaelan could only imagine as jarring, rusty sound. He shuddered involountarily.

A hand appeared, scratching at the pavement.

His grip on crossbow tightened, palms sticky and sleek with sweat.

"Steady..."

Lid toppled over and fell to the side. Something - or rather someone, large man in armour, was laborously crawling out of the manhole. Then another one, a woman. And there were others coming behind her, three of them.

Neither was the mage they were hunting for, nor one of their own.

Just some strangers.

What in the Nine Hells were they all doing down there, Gaelan had no idea. Not that it mattered, though. He was under strict orders. Whoever they were, they had the simple misfortune of being in a wrong place, and in a very wrong time indeed.

_Life's a real bitch sometimes. Sorry, mates._

Hooded figure stepped from behind the pillar, flashing brilliant red scarf.

The sign.

"Shoot!"

The line of sight was clear so far. Frowning a little, rogue aimed at armoured man, then deftly released the trigger.

"No, stop! Lads, cease fire! CEASE FIRE! HE'S OVER THERE!"

It was just split second too late.

All that Gaelan could do was to helplessly stare.

A portal opened several yards away from the dungeon's gaping entrance, away from huddling strangers and crouched assassins. Cockooned by unholy light, a man's powerful outline was gathering substance as it loomed up from dimension door.

Air crackled with static.

Bolt whooshed, cutting distance in no time, then - suddenly, impossibly - slowed down, swerved, and crashed against a rock boulder.

Ear-splitting explosion tore through the air, its raw force knocking everybody on the floor.

Down on his knees, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Gaelan Bayle watched the western side of Waukeen's Promenade disappear in a roaring fountain of stones, sand and dust.

It was only much later he admitted what his first stunned thought was.

_Ahh, by Mask. Blimey. I'm so done. I blasted the bleedin' Promenade. _


	2. Chapter 2

I did it ^^ Here's second chapter coming. Heh, it turned out a wee bit gory somewhere in the middle, but then, I guess I rated story "M" for a reason.

Hope you enjoy! R&R, I'll be grateful :)

* * *

Gaelan felt the blade press and slide against his neck.

Wickedly sharp, it stung where it nicked skin.

He winced, clearing his throat.

"An' by the way, boss, I'm real sorry 'bout the Promenade. I never meant to blast it."

Rogue broke off mid-sentence. As he looked around dimly lit room, his expression changed, growing sheepish with every passing silent second.

"I mean, Gath told us to shoot, so it be his fault, innit? I done only as 'twas ordered, an' then it all just sort of 'appened, an', well..."

Door creaked somewhere in the corridor. He could hear no footsteps, though, not over the music and distant hum of voices coming from the inn's main hall. Blade dropped and fell down, clattering against stone.

Gaelan shifted, leaning to retrieve it, water splashing out of the tub and onto the floor.

Half an hour of pitiful attempts, and all the various excuses for Promenade incident he managed to came up with still sounded right as they did at the beginning - which meant, incredibly lame.

Also, sorry pretense of a mirror that used to hang on the wall beside was gone; someone must have swiped it.

Bleedin' bunch o' cloyers, them louts. Some people. They would steal just 'bout anythin'.

He huffed and almost smiled at the irony, then eyed worn towel, thrown carelessly over tub's edge and razor in his hand.

It was going to be quite a challenge, now.

Sure, even as shabby place as Copper Coronet was did employ barber and attendants in their bath-house. The problem was, Gaelan never could bring himself to trust someone so much as to let them hold razor to his throat. With a resignated shrug, he took a swig from the bottle, then laid back and ducked under water. It was still nice and warm, if not exactly clean anymore.

He stayed there, submerged, thinking.

* * *

"Hawky?"

"What?"

"Pray tell, how much I'd 'ave to pay ye for stranglin' Vynn?"

"Nothing. I do engage in acts of charity sometimes, too." - she shrugged - "Actually, I think it would make for the most pleasurable experience I had in weeks. I hate that arrogant fool."

They were in the open now, but atmosphere of forced companionship seemed to linger on, trailing behind them much like the stench after goat-herding hirelings.

They had left their post right after it banged.

Shopkeeper's eyes - wide and frightened as he sat under the counter, most of his merchandise sprawled on the floor - nearly popped from sockets when, all of a sudden, the premise filled with armed Shadow Thieves, dropping in through the ceiling's trapdoor.

Any other day, rogue would crack up at poor man's expression when Gath - who appeared to forgot that he was still holding crossbow in his hands - bowed, and in a hushed, soothing tone, apologised for troubles.

At first they had to push their way through panicked crowd, and nearly lost Shiona when she tripped and dissapeared beneath human undertow. Before they reached stairs that ledto one gallery nearest the mark, Gaelan was breathless and bruised, Orm had bloody face, Shiona's ankle was sprained and Hawkeye was cursing over sole that came out loose. All the while, Vynn was shouting for them to hurry, while Gath shouted to be careful, and the only person who neither yelled nor complained was Jasmir, their third scout - which in turn wasn't much of an indicative, as she was mute.

Gallery was empty for a change, stalls abonadoned and shop doors ajar, and they had run as if chased by pack of hell hounds - gravel and shattered glass crunching under boots, their rushed steps not even verging on stealthy as they echoed through oddly deserted alleyway.

Here, as soon as they took positions, quarrel broke anew.

Vynn, second-in-command of their group, stood with arms crossed, his eyes narrowed to angry slits. Usually calm and composed Arcanis Gath paced restlessly along banister.

"Shiona needs to see healer. Orm and Jasmir, too. Others are armed too light and exhausted. No one expected-"

"We should wait."

"I already decided, and I'm sending them back. At least those who are hurt."

"But they're not bleeding to death as we speak, yes? The circumstances have changed!" - younger assassin snorted - "As far as I know, the damned Promenade being blown into bits wasn't included in the plans either!"

Gaelan flinched, then shifted on his feet, eyeing the site of explosion.

Though he really hated to admit it, Vynn had the point. They were not done yet.

As for the Promenade, it looked as bad as one could imagine.

Gate was gone, reduced to smouldering pile of rabble, not even as much as two bricks left to hold together, and there was huge chunk of the wall missing, and another one looking about to collapse. Water gushed from ruined fountain; the statue that once decorated it stood headless, wingless, with its marble arms untouched by the explosion and still raised in what now looked like accusation. Remnants of several wagons burned steadily where the calishyte caravan was.

Briefly, rogue wondered what had become of rich man and his concubines.

Sure enough, it's been mere minutes after the blast, but people already gathered around, both common folk and nobles milling and gawking, crying for water-cart to be brought, cordon of city guards trying to hold the crowd in reins.

It was not needed, as far as he could tell. There was something else that kept them well away.

He frowned.

There was an empty space, ring of earth littered with shards of marble, a nobody's land that not a single person dared to stomp so far. And then, right in the middle of it, was a wall of thick bluish-black vapour, neither smoke nor mist, reeking of ozone and rusted metal.

It hung immobile, undisturbed by a breeze, covering the place where the dungeon entrance was. Sickly light flickered through it now and then.

The silence was eerie.

No sound ever came from behind magic curtain. No one stepped out of it.

No, it wasn't over.

"Smells o' rat, eh?"

Hawkeye's forehead creased with worry. She wasn't looking at him.

"Indeed. An ugly, nasty rotting rat at that."

Gath came to squat on his heels beside them, sighing.

He looked quite distressed, but then, though occasionally charged with leadership over some bigger actions, it was widely known that senior assassin considered company of two a crowd.

Managing group of half of a dozen bickering thieves must have been trying on him.

"It takes awhile for spells like this one to dissolve."- he murmured, running hand through his pale hair - "He might be lying dead there, just as well."

"Or, just as well, he might not." - Hawkeye said, scowling as per usual.

There was wind blowing steadily now, and people shouted, passing along buckets of water, clouds of steam rising into air where it was thrown over burning debris.

Gaelan cleared his throat; Arcanis stirred, looking at him wearily.

"Yes?"

"It can be not th' best idea, now, but I be thinkin'-"

"Gods."- Hawkeye snorted - "I loathe it when you say that."

Rogue bit on his lip, and then, despite everything, grinned.

* * *

It was a very bad idea, of course.

He should have known better.

"Bayle, you are pushing it." - Hawkeye hissed - "I'm warning you."

"Heh, so admit it. Ye care 'bout me, afterall?"

"I do, you bastard! I dread to think whom I might get as replacement partner, have your ugly mug happened to splatter on the pavement!"

Even suspended precariously from the line of bunting as he was, rogue had no other choice but smile. Weakly, but still.

It was the closest thing to a compliment Hawkeye was able to give.

"Focus, you!" - Gath called from balcony across the street - "You can pat each other's back or hug or whatever after we're done."

Gaelan twisted and caught a glimpse of girl's finger flicking in rude dwarven gesture.

Vynn, already down on the site, was nowhere to be seen. Worrying as it was, rogue had other, more important things to be concerned with.

First of all, he was definitely pushing it.

All too aware of the drop below, Gaelan was only little over halfway between two buildings, and his strenght was wearing off. It has been good long time since he last crawled the rope. Too long time, surely enough, which he refused to admit - right before it was too late. Now, his strained arms hurt, muscles burned and tingled and shook, and his grip was loosening with every passing second.

He could hear Hawkeye as she called him again, her voice somewhat anxious. Rope bounced.

"I'm grand, aye? Not a bother on me!"

Breath hissing through his gritted teeth, he kicked the air and forced himself forward.

This left him with several more yards to go, plus numbed wrist and still nothing but his own cockiness to blame.

Not that it was the first time Gaelan put himself in situation like this; actually, it was something kind of chronic. But then, Lady Luck favored those who took risks and seemed to smile kindly at him so far.

It was always nine times out of ten, as the saying had it.

He could hear his pulse as it thudded loudly in his ears, blood humming with adrenaline as he laborously struggled to hold on to the rope.

Six yards to go. Four. Two.

Arcanis was leaning over banister, ready to help.

"Steady, lad. You're almost there."

One yard.

Rogue cursed. He was clinging on his fingertips now, and felt them slipping, one by one.

Index.

Median.

"Gotcha."

Assassin's outstreched hand brushed past his sleeve.

He had just enough time to see Gath's eyes widen and hear Hawkeye shout something and then, it was only handful of air he was clutching.

* * *

Gaelan despised just about anything that had to do with fish.

When presented with choice in the matter, he went out of his way to avoid lower docks that bustled with vendors offering their cold, slippery catch with its pale, slit bellies and glazed eyes. Even smell of highly praised chowder his sister liked to cook made him sick, and when wafting from her kitchen, it was perfect indicative Lizzie didn't want him at dinner.

Yet, quite ironically, it was fishmonger's stall with its ordinary blue-and-white striped marquee that saved him.

Falling rogue bounced off strung fabric, trashing timber frame into splinters and landing - much more mercifuly than he would dared to hope - among piles of fish gut and kelp and baskets crawling with ocean's bounty, eye to eye with the ugliest, toothy creature he'd ever seen.

Nine times out of ten. So true, so far.

Still, impact left him breathless and dazed, and at first, he just laid there, panting. His knee doesn't felt right, somewhat wobbly as he scrambled to his feet, shaking out seaweed and prawns that strayed under tunic's collar. He looked up, but there was no sign of Gath or Hawkeye.

Crouched low, Gaelan ducked out from behind the ruined stall - and backed away just as fast.

Wall of magic mist hung just few steps from where he fell, much closer than he had anticipated, and was dissolving steadily right before his eyes. Squinting as he peered through fading vapour, he realised four things at once.

The battle was over.

In a gaping crater, dead thieves lay.

Charred and broken, the bodies - over dozen of them - looked grotesquely, surreal, the very ground beneath tinged with scarlet, air heavy with stench of blood and magic and burned grease.

The sight did not fazed him as it perhaps should. Rogue saw his fair share of corpses - blue from cold and with their bellies inflated fom starving too long, or beaten beyond recognition and left to bleed out in the streets, or fallen in the fight - dead bodies were just dead, all the same.

It was something else that made his skin crawl.

Strangers, the very same who climbed out of the dungeon, stood there, very much alive - large tattooed man holding sword in his hand; an elven woman clad in short chainmail; a sooty-faced urchin with mop of whitish hair - they both seemed to struggle just to keep growling warrior in place. Huddling behind stall's remains, Gaelan noticed another girl - pale and dark-blonde - fluttering on the edge of group, and slim fellow whom he thought vaguely familiar.

They looked a miserable bunch altogether, dirty and battered and haggard. Yet, they lived - and so did wizard, the one that hunt was called for.

Irenicus.

Clad in eerie, sickly light that writhed and slithered around him, the bastard mage looked unscathed.

And he had Vynn.

Gaelan felt bile raising in the back of his throat.

Down on his knees, his face an awful mess of skin that bubbled and flaked, leaving only bared raw muscle, assassin wheezed and pawed around, gloved fingers twitching as they dug and scratched among cobblestones.

Web of reddish glow that seemed to cling to his cowering form flickered; his shoulders shuddered violently when he touched his stomach, and then, there was strange sloshy sound, reminder of overripe fruit falling on the floor.

Girl - the blonde one - shrieked, covering her eyes.

"No! No, please, don't-"

Mage's voice was quiet as he spoke, devoid of emotion.

"But why, Imoen? It is never too late to learn. Don't you like what you see?" - fast as snake, Irenicus inclined to the side, grabbing cowering man by the scruff of his neck.

The sound that tore out of Vynn's throat was the blood-curdling scream, cut short by fit of wet, rattling cough as he spasmed and jerked, mage's hand holding him firmly in the air, his intensines spilling out in the likeness of gruesome ribbons.

"It is alright, child. That's what people have inside. This here, it is called colon. That over there, caecum. And this? This is shit." - Irenicus continued matter-of-factly - "I am positive you will understand, eventually. The other one will, too."

Blonde girl, the one called Imoen, sobbed.

"And yet, how he clings to life. Just like this friend of yours did."

Vynn writhed and wheezed, kicking at glistening pile under his feet - and still couldn't bring himself to die. As much as Gaelan disliked him, it was ghastly fate he wouldn't wish no one.

His fingers brushed along dagger's hilt. He could end it.

Mage's back was turned to him, and for whatever were his reasons - attention focused solely on people to the front. It was the only right thing to do, to sneak there and put steel in sick fuck's side. Kill the bastard, and then show Vynn some mercy - by ending his life as well.

He'd rather someone ended him, was he on assassin's place, but he didn't move an inch, pressing palm against his mouth until it hurt, suffocating with nastiest feeling this would have been going to far.

There was no way he could move.

Out of many things Gaelan thought he was - a gambler, a dodger, a daring thief - he was no hero.

He almost missed the moment when arrow hissed, burying itself in dying assassin's neck.

Vynn's whimpering ceased at once, his body twitched weakly and stilled as he slumped to the ground.

Irenicus cocked his head, without doubt staring at the same person Gaelan and all others were staring.

The other girl - an elf or a half-elf - the one with whitish hair. She crouched beside large warrior, immobile, short bow in her raised hands.

"Ah, such a mercy." - Irenicus's voice tinged with dry amusement - "Enjoyed killing this fool, did you, child?"

Still clutched around bow's shaft, girl's fingers trembled.

"No."

"Stop it! Stop! - Imoen cried suddenly - "You aren't going to torment us again, and no one else, not anymore! Go to hell!"

She lounged forward, hurling something that looked like handful of firecrackers, straight into mage's face.

Gaelan gasped - and just then, glowing and pulsing with bluish light, outlines of several dimension doors that were opening all around the site appeared.

Cowlies.

It looked day was indeed written entirely in red ink - but, of course, it was only matter of time before bloody wizards decided to intervene. Such a powerful energy surge couldn't go unnoticed in Athkatla, and Cowled Wizards were very strict about unsanctioned using of magic - unless when one decided on placing a generous donation in order's coffers, which was rather polite name on common palm-greasing.

Having crawl under fallen marquee, rogue stayed there, flat on the ground while magic missiles hissed and crackled in the air- be it nine times of ten or no, he surely pushed his luck enough for one afternoon. He didn't know how long the skirmish took, or why the mad mage so suddenly surrendered - or, why in Nine Hells would he demand girl to be imprisoned as well. She was crying.

"It was him! I did nothing wrong!"

"You too were involved in illegal magic casting, young lady. You must go with us."

"No, please! I don't want to go, I don't! Somebody help me!"

He stayed low, nose buried in a pile of kelp as grey-robed figures were taking her away and when strangers broke into argument, and when his ears rung with hoarse - but undoubtly female - shriek.

"Imoooeeeeeeeen!"

Actually, he haven't done as much as flinch even as some cityguard trotted by, stomping right on his hand.

* * *

Gaelan resurfaced, snorting and spitting.

"I swear on that goodie Helm, it was nothin' but a plain bolt I shot. I never bought a single thing from th' gnome peddlar." - he inhaled sharply as he rushed on another improvised explanation - "Err, actually, sure as gold ain't even be knowin' no gnome, cross me heart an' hope to die if I be lyin'-"

"Bayle, are you high or what?" - cool, sobering voice interrupted - "What is this nonsense you are blabbering about?"

"Ye gods!" - Gaelan sat upright at instant, splashing more water and knocking few small items out of the tub's edge - "Couldn't ye at least cough or grunt or somethin', just so I know ye're there? I nearly jumped offa me skin!"

"Indeed. Let me guess... Guilty conscience, have you? You well should."

"Huh, do I?"

Hawkeye leaned from behind the wooden screen and sauntered into the room, unduly swaying her hips - a habit she has failed to get rid of so far.

Gaelan frowned.

As he noticed straight away, she was dressed in her second set of leathers and fully geared; bracers, armoured pads on her shoulders, scimitar strapped at her belt. Hilts of several daggers tucked in her boots gleamed.

Disdainful scowl at her face was nothing short of usual, but the fluffy thing wrapped around her head made rogue blink.

Once. Twice.

"Err... Hawky, is this a towel ye's wearin'?"

Girl's eyes narrowed as she regarded him up and down - the kind of lingering look that, had it come from any other woman, rogue might have found flattering.

Coming from Hawkeye, it was - at best - measuring.

"Yes, it is towel." - she replied, her voice silk-covered steel - "And just so we are clear, I refuse to take offence. Not from you, seeing as you sit in a barrel, bare-arsed."

"Point taken." - Gaelan nodded - "An' now, takin' we're already done exchangin' pleasantries: what are ye doin' here, anyway?"

Hawkeye sat on the tub's edge.

"You have never reported back to the guildhall after the Promenade events. I must admit that I was quite concerned with your sudden disappearance. So was the boss."

She leaned over, plunging her hand in a soapy water.

Rogue stirred uncomfortably.

He probably imagined fingers brushing lightly across his hip; more so that when Hawkeye held her palm up, they were curled around razor's handle. There was a strange glint to her eyes as she moved closer - breathing liqorice in his face, blade still in her hand - and for one funny moment, he thought she was either going to stab him or kiss him.

On an impulse, not waiting for her to decide whichever to do, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against girl's lips.

They were warm, salty-sweet.

Back when she worked in the streets, he fucked Hawkeye - paid her for that - but he never kissed her before.

Whores dont't kiss.

Hawkeye let out surprised gasp, holding still for what was no more than a split second - then jerked away, razor slipping from her hand and bouncing off the floor with loud clang.

"You are one irreformable case of idiocy."

Gaelan regarded her curiously. It was an unusually soft-spoken thing for girl to say. She stood now with her back turned, but from the hard, stiff set of her shoulders, he could tell she was fuming.

"There's smoke comin' out yer ears, Hawky." - he grinned - "Does it mean ye didn't like it?"

"I care not for your silly antics. And seeing as you obviously must have fallen on your head-"

"Not exactly, but I does had me fair share of fallin' today, sure enough."

"Yes, and the fact you are still alive just proves that you have more luck than wits! - she snarled - "What in the Nine Hells made you crawl this bloody rope?"

"Well-"

"Don't you ever dare to do that to me again."

"Oh, wait." - rogue cocked his head - "Ye really worried 'bout me, did ye not?"

Hawkeye recoiled and thrown towel into his face.

"I told you already, and I hate to repeat myself, you know." - she replied in tone that could freeze the water - "And just so you don't get any ideas, I'm not here for the pleasure of your company, which despite what you may be thinking, is rather dubious. Boss is looking for you, so better get dressed, fast. You are going to have guests."

Gaelan blinked.

"What, now?"

"You never reported back; I would have told you earlier, have you not insisted on playing daft. Oh, and I hope you are not far down this bottle?"

"Nay. And this is healin' potion."

"Of course, that explain the reason why you reek of whiskey. How come I never guessed so myself?"

"They be nasty stuff, them medicaments" - he shrugged - "I only added a little somethin' stronger to kill the taste."

"I wouldn't mind something stronger myself, dear lad."- said smooth, distinctive male voice - "But not mixed, if you please."

Gaelan stiffled a curse and threw Hawkeye accusing glare - at which she responded with quite a smug smirk - when two men, equally slim, one just slightly taller than other - walked into room, floor barely creaking under their feet.

Mask, this day has no end, he thought. It was just like him - first being stuck in blasted tower, then landing with his nose in a pile of fish guts, and now, this. Receiving visit from Spymaster and Silhouette of Burglars while naked and sitting in a barrel.

Things couldn't have got any more awkward.

Left with no other choice, Gaelan reached behind and raised his dagger in salute, grinning furiously all the while.

"Master, sir." - he said, bowing - "Er, sorry. Wasn't expectin to see ye's, sure as gold."

Judging from their expressions, Oryal Forestal and Renal Bloodscalp found the situation about as humorous.


	3. Chapter 3

It took me sweet time, but... Heh.

Oryal Forestal is not mine - I've borrowed him from FR 'Cloak and Dagger' ; also, the structure and organisation of the Shadow Thieves' Guild here differs slightly from the one shown in BG2: SoA.

Late to the Party, thank you very much!

* * *

"So, from what you've just said, I understand that you have seen the whole incident from quite close-up." - Renal said - "Very good. There are several new circumstances that we were not aware until now."

Gaelan, embarassed and relieved to hear that, afterall, it was not him but Irenicus who damaged the Waukeen's Promenade, straightened, regarding his superior. Not surprisingly, Renal found his stuttered explanation extremely amusing.

"Nevertheless, we could make them work for the benefit of us all."

"I be all ears, boss?"

Renal sat on the bench, one hand propped casually behind his head, a cup in the other. Oryal Forestal, cross-legged and on the floor, wasn't drinking.

Even to someone well used to it as he was, the striking resemblance between these two men - defying the very fact that one was human and the other a half-elf - was at times a wee bit disturbing.

They were both green-eyed and dark-haired, though Oryal's was long, held together with a leather strap, whereas Renal's cropped and actually shaven on the side. Pink line of the fresh scar run there - the reminder of assassination attempt from two months ago. A foolish attempt, if anyone have asked him; when it come to paying debts, the chief burglar was very scrupulous. The results were far from pretty - though usually affable and soft-spoken, Renal wasn't nicknamed 'Bloodscalp' just for laughs.

Oryal was a silent presence, an incarnation of spy's motto 'speak a little, listen much'; to outsider it might look as if he was somewhat subdued by his counterpart, but within the Guild, where the years of close friendship between them were a widely known fact, it was obvious that more cordial Renal simply happened to be a mouthpiece.

To be honest, Gaelan preffered it this way - when Oryal decided to speak, he habitually finished other man's sentences - most of times, with the odd accuracy that he found downright creepy.

Inclining slightly, he managed to caught a glimpse of Hawkeye; he suppressed a chuckle. The towel was gone from her head, but there was a multitude of paper strips woven into her hair. It wasn't hard to see the reason she was so pissed off - they probably dragged her out of the bathhouse as well. She occupied the very edge of the bench and did not speak once save for the rather formal greeting; her expression shifting from thoughtful to guarded, to carefully neutral.

"Our mysterious strangers, the girl and her group, are of interest."

"That so? Th' one that Cowlies took? Imoen be 'er name." - Gaelan recalled - "But she be as good as dead, no? Them bloody wizards, they won't let 'er go now that they put their paws on her."

"Oh no, I don't mean Imoen, though there is one certain use for her. I'll explain it to you in a moment." - Renal took a sip from his cup - "For the time being, it is the other one that concerns us more. You see, from what we have learned so far, their presence in Irenicus's dungeon turns out to be nothing close to accidental. They are the adventurers with quite a name on the Sword Coast. He abducted them a while ago and held them prisoners since."

The rogue nodded.

"Aye, that be explainin' a lot. They seemed in a bad shape alright."

"Well, we couldn't have expected Irenicus to play the role of the gracious host." - Oryal said dryly - "Could we?"

According to what Gaelan has been told, not a single man of twenty assassin who were send down to the dungeon came back. And he'd seen the corpses, and what the mage has done to Vynn.

It sure wasn't the most pleasant memory.

"Who they be, then?"

"Ah, yes."- the chief burglar's mouth curled up - "This is exactly where the things get really interesting. You see, this one lassie he kept locked in his place, she's not just any adventurer. She's the Bhaalspawn."

"A Bhaalspawn?"

"No, _the _Bhaalspawn. The very same girlie who has stopped the war between the Amn and the Baldur's Gate just a few months ago." – the Spymaster said - "Her name is Millara. Millara of Candlekeep. And believe me, if we play it out right, she'll be willing to build us a stairway up to the sky and more."

The rogue shifted with a splash.

"Aye?"

"From what we've heard, little darling Millara is almost slavishly devoted to her friend. I would dare to expect that the promise of Imoen being returned to her would be just enough to make her cooperative. We must act very fast, though, and as for the time being, it is also going to involve quite a lot of bluffing." - Renal grinned broadly - "Say, lad, are you up to the task?"

Gaelan found himself grinning back, even before he answered.

* * *

They haven't allowed her into the main quarters of the garrison.

Instead, Millara and Minsc - for the safety reasons, as officer Esme vaguely stated, though she did not say whose safety she had in mind - were to be confined and wait.

The room that guards locked them in was small, with single barred window and heavily reinforced door, empty save for battered table and narrow wooden bench chained to the wall.

To be fair, the reason why she was confined - as Jaheira said while dealing her a sharp slap to the face - was because she acted "hysterically", "recklessly", and - along with an enraged Minsc – had almost gotten them all killed, if not for the druid and Yoshimo, both of whom stayed calm even when faced with a dozen armed men.

While she and the ranger struggled, pinned to the ground, Jaheira somehow managed to convince guard's captain that they were of no danger, and agreed to follow her to the garrison, to explain their part in the Promenade events and enquire about Imoen.

They were in Athkatla, the Amn capital, Yoshimo hushedly explained her along the way. Millara just nodded, hiding her face beneath the hood, squinting. Her eyes hurt from the afternoon glare.

It felt... odd, to see the sun.

Inside of the garrison was cool and quiet, and it made her shudder.

She couldn't tell the exact time, but judging from the way the light seeping in through the window has changed - from the day's golden glow to the soft, hazy pinks of a sunset - it must have been hours. Millara refused the water and towels they offered her, but greedily took to the pitcher that someone has left on the table.

By now, the pitcher was empty and she was almost comfortably numb.

Almost.

At first, she paced restlessly, her palm still felt slick with Imoen's sweat; trapped in the very moment they held on to each other, when she promised she won't let them take her, when she felt her grip loosening, fingers slipping one by one as the grey-robed men wrenched them apart …

Her throat burned, raw, sore.

It was very quiet, save for the occasional clatter of the horse hooves coming from the street above, and doors creaking somewhere in the corridor.

Minsc sat on the bench's edge, his shoulders hunched, absentmindedly stroking the little ball of fluff that was his pet hamster. Boo, oblivious to the situation, slept, snugly curled up in his palm.

When the ranger gazed up to her, his face looked very young and uncertain under the fearsome tribal tattoos - it was just so easy to forget that the hulking giant of a man was but a few years older than she. He has hardly moved since they were locked here, and he never touched the watered wine guards gave them, lost in his own grief

Dynaheir.

Since the day they have met, Millara used to look up to Minsc as a big brother figure - an orphan's dream about family made true; his bear-like frame, honesty and seemingly irrepressible spirit was the solid, comforting presence in her life.

Of course, he knew what she was - but sometimes, Millara wondered if he ever really understood.

Bhaalspawn or not, in his eyes she was a _good_ person, a _hero_ - the bitterness of it hurt - if she has told him she was a squirrel, he would accept it. Minsc's world was a simple place where the evil was to be smote and the good always won.

That made his anguish even harder.

Dynaheir…

Their captor made her watch. The razor-edged knives and the hooks, and the vials filled with thick liquid that, when rubbed in the skin, made it dissolve, crack and flake. She watched and couldn't turn away, held in place with his magic. The wychlarn was proud and did not scream.

Millara blinked - the memory was mercifully dim, blurred - save for one thing.

That he released her later. The blade, he gave her.

Then, he gave her a choice, and she obeyed, crying.

"Minsc-"

There were no words she could think about that would not sound cruel and meaningless; the Rashemi trio was now down to duo, with nothing to be done to make things right again.

Hesitantly, she reached across the table, covering the big man's one free hand with her own.

Minsc's clenched fist was bone-white.

"He will pay, Millara. We'll make him. You help me, yes?"

"I promise."

Millara shuddered, gazing down into the empty pitcher, unable to meet his eyes.

She knew she would never tell Minsc that after what seemed to be an hours and hours of torment, Dynaheir broke down and screamed. And that she just kept screaming until her voice was no more than inhuman rasp, crimson froth welling from her ruined mouth - and that it wasn't Irenicus who killed her.

* * *

It has been always like this for Hawkeye.

The youngest and only daughter of a nobleman, born long after her parents finished having children - or so they thought - and with four brothers well on the way to adulthood, she was presence disregarded - both unexpected and unwanted - aloof, silent girl with sullen mouth.

A shadow.

Quickly she learned the benefits of watching while remaining unseen herself, listening where the others talked - first in her family home, then in the chambers of the calishyte swine's that was her lord husband. Then in the streets of Athkatla.

Face carefully neutral, she listened to the operation plan being laid out before them. She didn't like it - one didn't have to be born and raised guttersnipe to smell the rat from a distance.

And she smelled the rat.

Not that it mattered now.

"By Mask, but 'course I'm in, boss!" - Gaelan exclaimed brightly - "Ye hear that, Hawky?"

The rogue still sat in the tub, busy with stirring, splashing water, talking at break-neck speed and grinning like a madman, his hazel eyes practically glowing at the challenge.

Hawkeye frowned fiercely, thinking.

* * *

"Where is she?"

It was enough to look at the druid's face to know that not everything was all right, despite Yoshimo's immediate assurance as the door opened and they walked into the room. Office Esme proved to be more understanding than expected, and deemed their part in the Promenade's disturbances incidental; they were free to leave the garrison now, but Jaheira clearly avoided her gaze.

And she was babbling.

Millara has came to know the druid well - and surely well enough to be aware how much she despised idle talk. Her skin crawled with unease.

"It seems that we'll have to stay in Athkatla for a little while; we will need funds and I have send the messenger who should be able to locate Khalid, even if he'd left Baldur's Gate since we-"

"But why?" - Millara asked, searching other woman's face - "Where is Imoen? Why is she not with you, if everything is fine?"

"See, young one, there is a problem that-" - Yoshimo started, and broke off, squirming under Jaheira's glare.

Millara took few wobbly steps toward them, her fists clenched tight.

"Jaheira, please." - she said - "Just tell me."

The druid cleared her throat.

"Child, your hysterics won't help her. If you could sit down and listen to me once-"

"I've sat long enough, you allowed them to lock me, as if I was rabid animal! Tell me, would you be calm if it was Khalid who was taken away from you?" - she could hear her own voice, hoarse and pitching dangerously - "Would you, really?"

Jaheira's jaw set tighter and Millara thought she would slap her yet again - but the druid's grey eyes were only tired when she finally looked down to her.

"It is… complicated. Much more than we thought at first. That place they imprisoned her in, it's not an ordinary gaol. Imoen, she-" - unexpectedly, Jaheira stepped closer and wrapped her in the awkward, shoulder-draping hug.

Millara felt her breath hitch as the druid pulled her closer - it was just so plainly wrong, so completely out of character that she understood, there and then.

They just didn't know.

It was as if the trapdoor has opened under her feet, and she was falling, spiralling down - the druid's answer, when it finally came, was unnecessary.

She heard them talking, but she wasn't listening.

"... to the Copper Coronet... There's is a chance that we can find out..."

"The Cowled Wizards, they..."

Managing to break free from the other woman's embrace, Millara leaned against the wall, the stone cool and smooth on her skin. She thought she felt a hand as it brushed against her arm and then curled around her elbow, tugging.

"Tomorrow, we might... In the Government District... "

"...Maybe..."

Someone, at the same time firmly and gently, prompted her to go. Then they were dragging her, the very ground beneath her feet seeming to shift like quicksand.

Stumbling, walking mechanically as in a dream, Millara allowed them to lead her through the winding, narrow streets, the foreign architecture of the city nothing but the flurry of colours muted in the near-darkness, the air smelling of burning waste and open gutters, the sounds around her no more than an indistinct murmur.

She just went along.

* * *

Gaelan leaned against dirty wall, squinting in the street lantern's flickering light.

Just like always at this particular time of evening, the slums were still much alive - someone, a very drunken sailor most likely, sung a rowdy song on the top of his voice. In the narrow archway nearby, daytime beggars disposed carefully of their fake wooden legs and walking sticks, just to resurface as petty thieves and peddlers of forbidden goods. Ladies of the night waited for the customers, their dresses ranging from the bold and revealing to plain made revealing, to ordinary rags.

Impatiently, the rogue shooed away a stray dog that dared to come too near.

A bit of gravel fell from the roof where Arledrian, Hawkeye, Jasmir and a few others waited with their crossbows at hand - a neccesary precaution, Oryal said - landing right under his feet.

The mark was close.

He took a deep breath and readied himself.

As they walked from around the corner, he immediately picked out the leader - the half-elven woman that the Bhaalspawn was. She was graceful, and really stunning despite grim expression on her face and tattered clothes she wore.

She didn't seem to notice him.

Gaelan whistled loudly - and when she startled, looking at him with narrowed eyes, he gave her his most respectful smile.

"'Tain't sure not th' nicest place for a stroll to the likes o' ye." - he called - "May it be ye's lookin' for somethin' particular this side a river, me lady?"

* * *

Jaheira didn't like the way the stranger grinned.

Leaning casually against the wall and dressed in a manner that suggested just about anything in between dock worker and a common guttersnipe, his smile was simply too cocky and roguish, despite his attempts at being polite.

The druid was in charge now - tired, aching from head to toes and worried as she was - and definitely with no intention in getting into any more troubles than they already had.

He stood there, clearly waiting for her to say something.

"We're just passing by." - Jaheira replied - "And I fail to see any reason this should be your business, too. Let us be."

"That so? Right odd, and sure enough not what little bird tells me." - the man cocked his head, looking unabashed - "Mayhaps I knows something that ye might be interested in, eh?"

"Listen, lout, I've no interest in whatever you have to offer."

"I shall think ye do."

Jaheira took two steady steps forward, with Yoshimo right at her side. She could see his hand as it wandered slowly to his blade's hilt. Behind her, Minsc stirred restlessly.

"Careful." - the Kara-Turan whispered - "He might be armed."

The stranger must have heard it, too.

"Gods, why so nervous, me lady?" - he's shown her his own empty hands - "I mean ye no harm, see? Just wanted to talk, is all."

The druid nodded at Yoshimo - the response was the barely audible hiss of drawn steel.

She stared at the man - quite expectedly, he seemed to crumple at the obvious threat.

"Good." - she said - "Now, either make it quick, or begone. What is it do you want? I've no coin to spare."

"An' who said I be after yer coin?"

"Isn't it what everybody in this accursed place is after?"

"Me? Nay. But yer sort doesn't come to th' slums for no reason, innit?" - the stranger glanced around - "Say, don't ye be lookin for someone? A young lassie arrested perhaps? Or maybe ye 'appen to be named Millara?"

The druid regarded him, willing her face to look neutral and disinterested.

"I am most certainly not." - she replied chillingly - "And now if you excuse us-"

"It's me. "

Somewhat shaky on her feet, Millara moved forward, her eyes fixed on the stranger and unnaturally shining.

"Do you know where is she?"

The stranger's attention shifted immediately, cheeky grin wiped clean from his face.

"There." - he shook his head, looking vaguely puzzled - "Seems me sources of information are not as infallible as I be thinkin'. So, ye're Millara, missy? I be lookin for ye."

"Yes."

Jaheira thought it was the first time that girl spoke since they left the garrison two hours ago. She felt her teeth clench, torn between compassion and suddenly strong urge to kick

her.


	4. Chapter 4

If there was something that Gaelan did not expect, it was for a demigoddes to look so very much like a half-starved waif.

Her hair - silvery in a dim light - desperately needed a good wash. She smelled like a slum dweller, of sweat and soured wine, and under the layer of grime that covered her face, he couldn't even say wherever the Bhaalspawn was pretty. Was she a random passer-by, he wouldn't have given her a second glance.

There were also several other things the rogue had not anticipated - this included the renowned heroine of the Sword Coast puking all over his boots and then fainting on him, or the large, bald man's - Minsc was the name, he recalled - fist being quite so heavy.

Gaelan winced, rubbing his cheek. It hurt, and his ear still rung from the blow.

"Twas' sure unnecessary, me big friend." - he complained - "Blimey, one could think ye gone an' swapped paws with a bleedin' stone golem!"

"No one touches Millara when I watch." - Minsc growled ominously - "Hear me? No tricks from you, now."

The rogue shrugged.

"Aye, as ye have it, mate." - he huffed, refraining from the mention that actually, had he not stepped up and caught the girl in time, she would have slumped straight on to the pavement and lost about all her teeth.

Looking at the bright side, at least the blade, for one unpleasant moment drawn close to his spine, disappeared. Yoshimo stood a few feet away, scanning the street with narrowed eyes, his expression guarded.

Gaelan thought his face familiar back on the Promenade, and as it turned out, he wasn't mistaken. He still had no idea what could've possibly bring Yoshimo down the Irenicus' den, or how he'd ended in the Bhaalspawn girl's company, but Renal had no love and a very little patience for independents, and Yoshimo was stupidly pushing it far too long. This - as the chief burglar pointed out - could be easily turned into an asset.

The fellow's last encounter with the Guild was on no account an enjoyable one, of that Gaelan was sure. Hopefully, it mellowed him enough to make him cooperative.

Yoshimo's dark eyes darted into his direction, once, twice, leaving him wondering whatever the Kara-Turan thief recognised him, too - they've only ever met in passing - although even if he did, he obviously knew better than to say so aloud.

Good.

The other half-elven woman, the redhead whom he took for the Bhaalspawn - Jaheira - crouched beside, murmuring words in the language the rogue didn't know. Light danced between her fingers, a cat's cradle of fire. He could smell magic, the priestly stuff - the scent of it was different, a reminder of damp moss and freshly cut grass and earth.

Millara of Candlekeep, sprawled across his lap and still uncounscious, shivered slightly.

He didn't really mind her being there - she was a tiny thing, about as heavy as a bundle of twigs. At the very least, it seemed unlikely for Minsc to try hit him again while he held her - as long as he thought the girl was safe. Gaelan sat still and wisely kept hands to himself, having no intention of pushing the man any further; even if not the brightest torch on the wall, the warrior's loyalty left no place for a doubt.

But then, Minsc couldn't have known how little separated him and his friends from being packed full of holes, had the Shadow Thieves hidden above decided one of their own was in danger and acted on it.

The rogue sighed and glanced up, feigning disinterest.

There was no sign of activity there. Not a rustle, not an impatient grunt, not a creak of a boot on a shingle that would betray their presence.

Millara whimpered and curled up; even through thick woolen tunic, he could feel bony fingers convulsively gripping and digging into his ribs. Whatever magic Jaheira woman was working over the girl, it was obviously painful.

He frowned, remembering this one time - not too long ago - when after a bar brawl that turned awry, a Thalessan priestess tended to his dislocated shoulder. Not an experience to treasure. Followers of Thalos were a tad disturbing bunch, and definitely not the first choice of people Gaelan would go to seek help any other day. Distracted and too busy with spouting profanities, he didn't care which church he was being dragged to. Also, he couldn't recall whatever the spell itself hurt or not, but - as Weathermistress Ada remarked, giving him a particularly charming smile - the magic alone won't put a bone back into its place.

He had done his best to forget it.

"What's wrong with 'er?"

The question left his mouth before he could think better of it, earning him yet another wary glance.

"She'll be fine."

"Aye, it's only that it looks like she-"

"Oh, fret not, it won't kill her. Not after what she's been through, but given how you claim to be so perfectly informed, I'm sure you are aware of what was that, don't you?" - Jaheira snapped, her slate-grey eyes unfriendly and cold like Alturiak's morning.

Gaelan shrugged.

The magic light in the woman's hand flickered and faded away. She straightened her back, exhaling loudly.

"Am I bein' far wrong now, or that been some kind o' the healin' spell?" - the rogue enquired again, in what he thought a polite tone - "Lady Jaheira?"

He could almost hear the druid's teeth gnash.

"Indeed."

"Coo! Err, so, could ye perhaps-"

"No."

Gaelan pointed finger at the warrior.

"Come on now, missus. That pet giant of youse nearly knocked me brains offa me head, he did! Couldn't ye at least-"

"Are you deaf or daft? - she hissed - Or, Silvanus forbid, both?"

The way in which the woman glared at him was just all too familiar; so was the fierce scowl that adorned her face. She was a looker alright - leonine, full lips, almond-shaped eyes - in a regal, frosty, eat-your-heart way.

Lovely. Right another incarnation of Hawkeye.

He tried to turn attention elsewhere, but yet again, he wasn't in for much comfort - Minsc stood towering over him and alert, his gaze unwavering, obviously ready and willing to hurt him some more.

"Why won't ye sit down?" - Gaelan sighed - "I really ain't goin' to snatch yer baby girl an' run."

"Never said you would. Just checking you won't, little man."

There was a rodent climbing up the warrior's arm, but Minsc doesn't seem to neither notice nor care, and didn't answer when the rogue commented on it halfheartedly. Gaelan watched as he dug in his belt pouch, producing a dried apple sliver and offering it to the animal. It made him wonder whatever the man was completely right in the head.

Got one too many a blow in that thick, tattooed skull of his, more like.

He leaned back as Jaheira stooped over the girl and brushed away hair stuck to her forehead. There was that strange look on her face again, an odd mix of grudging affection and growing annoyance. She sat on the ground close by him - almost too close - in what the rogue thought an ostensibly casual manner.

"So, first things first." - the druid murmured - "Now, oh-so-mysterious stranger, do me a favour and tell me who in the Nine Hells are you?"

She crossed her arms, glancing at him sideways, their shoulders touching. Gaelan cleared his throat; here was the hard part coming, but he had a plan.

Sort of.

* * *

The pain was good.

It brought the counsciousness back as it seared through her body, like a multitude of tiny hot and cold needles pricking at her skin, tingling, burning while her tainted blood fought against the surge of healing magic.

Once, after Jaheira had treated gash left on Khalid's arm after the dire wolf's bite, Millara asked him how it felt, the Oakfather's touch.

Like scorching sunrays and rain on leaves, the warrior stuttered, smiling.

His answer left Millara puzzled, worried.

She had never experienced nothing like what he described. Maybe save for the scorching part. Some time later that day, Jaheira explained - not unkindly - that perhaps, it was her sire's essence. Though long dead and gone, Bhaal owned part of her soul, making her body reject the other gods' blessings. It did nothing to comfort her.

Dynaheir had took her aside and shown her how to brew a poppy tea to ease the pain and aid in sleep, instructing how she should never let it get too strong. Poppy is a lethal poison when misused, the Rashemi mage warned. Millara knew the recepture well; she lavishly thanked the wychlarn and did not say so aloud.

Her fingers found a woolen cloth and tugged on it as she hovered between murky waters of delirium and slowly returning awarness. It smelled of yarrow, smoke and soap.

Warmth.

Slight heaving of someone's breathing.

A hand came down and brushed across her damp forehead, fingers calloused and rough.

_Wake up. Wake up, Millara. We have to get out of here._

Millara stirred, lashes fluttering as she struggled to force eyes open, finally remembering Athkatla.

Irenicus.

Imoen and the Cowled Wizards.

A haggard man with no legs, asking them for a coin and his toothless grin; children, two boys and a little girl, laughing as they played with a dead magpie tied to a stick, its wings flapping limply; dirt and rats milling under their feet.

The stranger in slums who knew them.

Whispers, voices.

Jaheira's snarking and Minsc's occasional threats; the third voice wasn't Yoshimo's, heavily accented and unfamiliar as it was. It hurt her ears, raucous and loud, too close.

Much too close.

* * *

"Th' name be Gaelan Bayle."

He glanced up at Yoshimo, who fidgeted slightly at that. It seemed he was right, afterall - and judging from the grim look Jaheira shot the Kara-Turan, she was starting to suspect something along the lines, too.

"Ain't used t' keepin' such a grand company as yerselves." - the rogue added amiably - "Ye will have to forgive me bad manners so far, m'lady."

The druid arched her eyebrows, staring straight into his face. He noticed a fading bruise across her cheekbone, and a swollen bottom lip.

"Unnecesary."

"Ye's th' famous bunch, eh? Th' heroes of th' Sword Coast and Baldur's Gate an' what have ye."

"Are you insist on playing idiot, then?"

Gaelan worked hard to not flinch himself.

"Just so we're clear, mister Bayle." - she continued - "If that's indeed your name, in which I must admit I sadly doubt-"

"It is."

"Ah."

"I told ye, I come in peace." - the rogue let his shoulders slump a little - "What's me business in hidin' me name from ye now, anyway?"

"But of course." - Jaheira nodded - "For if you had one, then undoubtly you'd share the reasons with me."

"Ye's near readin' me very heart, lady."

"I can't possibly think about a single valid reason to trust you."

Mere minutes after the Bhaalspawn girl passed out, and Gaelan was already sure he and Jaheira weren't going to get along.

"Well, 'course ye canna." - he shrugged, then smiled - "Was I in yer shoes... Alas, not all strangers are to be feared. I'm th' friendly sort. Yoshimo lad over there 'appened by me before, an' sure can be tellin' much th' same thing, eh? Remember me rumly, me ol' cove, ain't ye?"

Gaelan let the hint drop with a deliberate ease, smiling still as he waited for it to sink in. The Kara-Turan grunted in reply, stepping closer and looking apologetically from Jaheira to the rogue and back. Frown on the woman's face deepened.

"Yoshimo..?"

"This I do." - he said reluctantly - "I wasn't sure until now, though."

"Heh. I'm not much surprised, m'lady." - Gaelan grinned impishly - "Twas' a hell of th' night, aye? Never got no chance t' ask how's yer poor head, Yoshi. Must've been harsh. Ye never made it back ken afterwards, disappeared right like a pebble in th' well. All th' good lads left worryin' 'bout yer hide, an' ye didn't even think t' give us lot as much as a holler. Tsk. Shame on ye, mate, really."

"Appreciate your concern."

"Ye's thinkin' about makin' amends, then?"

"Maybe."

"Glad to hear that."

Jaheira listened to the exchange with suspiciously calm expression.

"Care to explain what is it all about?"

"I mean, I offer th' help ye need, and Yoshimo fellow will guarantee no harm will come t' ye at me hands." - Gaelan cut in, smoothly and well before the Kara-Turan get the chance to speak - "A folly to refuse, I daresay, and more so whilst I canna' see ye bein' crowded with others rushin' to give ye hand. An' there will be no others."

Pointedly, he looked at Jaheira's ill-fitted excuse of an armour.

"Tis' called City o' Coin for a reason. Ye might well be a dragon slayers an' what have ye, but ye ain't look a kind to 'ave as much as two coppers t' rub together. Gettin' me drift already?"

"I've been to Athkatla before."

"So, ye should know all th' better. Them streets will swallow ye in no time. Would be a terrible misfortune for a husband t' loose such a lovely wife as yerself, eh?

The woman's eyes flashed angrily.

"Listen, you-"

"Aw, c'mon now. Don't be thinkin' I try t' threaten ye, me lady. None a such."

Gaelan kept his voice level and quiet. He picked up a bit of twine and played with it idly, working his fingers into barely-there shapes; tiny loops and forks, not recognisable to the untrained eyes.

Briefly, he glanced at Yoshimo.

The Kara-Turan watched, keeping his face straight - wisely so.

* * *

It was taking too long.

Lying flat on her stomach, Hawkeye cursed inaudibly.

The sight of the Kara-Turan drawing steel caused alarm at their post, just as it was to be expected. So was the big warrior - the one with the half-wit look - knocking Bayle around.

The rogue whined loudly about it, and didn't make a move to defend himself. Hawkeye watched his 'simpleton act' with teeth clenched; a random punch wasn't enough for them to act on. The bussiness was supposed to be matter of the utmost importance, and the Spymaster's orders were very strict indeed.

Avoid violence unless it really proves to be inevitable, he has said. Keep calm and wait to the very last moment.

Hawkeye's lips pressed into tight, unhappy line.

Oryal was a good strategist and as opposed to some other guildmasters, he cared about his subordinates. It wasn't difficult to respect him.

Still, it didn't mean she liked it any more. Neither the orders that held her on the roof, nor the thing as a whole, and even less after the Promenade events. Hawkeye couldn't quite believe that forcing one adventurer into cooperation - be it _the _famous Bhaalspawn or not - would solve all the Guild's problems. Far too many others apparently did, with the reckless idiot Bayle throwing his bumbling self headfirst in the middle of the mess brewing over.

What was worse, he seemed to enjoy getting his bit of action.

Stationed to her left, Arledrian raised hand to his mouth, indicating for her to be quiet and do not move. Hawkeye mouthed a curse regarding the elf's mother's presumably unseeming carrying-on, shifting on her elbows and creeping closer to the roof's edge.

Below, the redheaded hag, the half-wit and the Kara-Turan rat engaged in an argument as they obviously couldn't reach the agreement as to where to go now. The Bhaalspawn has not awoken. She just lied there, a pitiful thing wrapped in rags.

Some heroine.

Gaelan sounded as self-assured as usual, but she could quite easily tell that he was getting impatient with every wasted passing second. The orc-brain, he was going to loose it. Bits of conversation that reached her ears only confirmed it. Someone tapped lightly at her arm, and Hawkeye flinched.

She hated to be touched.

Turning around, she saw Jasmir quickly take her hand away. The other scout regarded her questioningly, gloved fingers flicking in a serie of gestures.

_All's grand?_

Hawkeye shrugged, waving palm dismissively and pointing at her wrist.

_No bother__._

Jasmir threw the straw-coloured, messy braid over her shoulder, uncounsciously revealing the ugly stump where the ear once been. More rushed little signs followed; hesitation, a half-formed question, then Jasmir smiled.

_Girl, I'm mute, not blind._

Hawkeye grimaced fiercely.

_Used to do too much tongue-wagging, did you not? No wonder someone decided to relieve you and others of the problem._

The other scout's eyes widened, hurt written clearly within. She didn't care - did not want to care - as her fingers curled, forming more and more wicked words.

_Stove it. None of your fucking business._

She saw Arledrian stand up, waving at them to follow him. The party below was ready to move, and so were they. Not making a sound, Hawkeye rose to her feet.

Jasmir brushed past her, avoiding her gaze.

Just as well.

They crept along the chimney's wall and then onto another roof, the shingles damp and slippery under her feet. She caught another glympse of the party below - none of them looked up, not even once.

Hawkeye blinked, considering her crossbow's trigger. Just one wrong move, a mere flick of a finger, and the Hells would break loose on the streets. Ending the story.

Both of them.

Another scout, Keith - she didn't know him well, a reason to dislike him about as justified as any other - went past, jostling her. Gravel crunched under her boot, falling down onto the cobbled street. Hawkeye held her breath.

It passed unnoticed.

She raised hand, making sharp gestures with index and middle fingers, letting her temper flare - a convenience, a comfortable routine, something that kept her mind occupied.

It warmed her.

It used to feel safe.

* * *

"Fine then. Still, as much as I'd love to say it is truly a pleasure to meet you, mister Bayle, I'm afraid that I'm not this good a liar." - the druid said wearily - "You won't mind if we skip this part then, would you? Where is she?"

Her near-pleasant tone wouldn't fool no one; there was a vague, but icy edge to it. The rogue kept his eyes steady on hers, waiting as she searched his face.

Gaelan shook his head, glancing around and pulling up a rueful smile.

"Me apologies, but I won't tell ye no more. Not 'ere, not like that. Ye must understand, m'lady, it's nothin' personal, but the information-"

"Again, apologies are unnecesary." - Jaheira's voice hardened - "Of course. Information costs, is that what you were saying?"

"Aye, this too." - the rogue said, his smile turning a little wry - "What I mean, though, it travels much faster than any of us would like. I dare say them walls heard right 'bout their fair share for tonight."

"True enough." - Yoshimo murmured, eyeing a harlot, middle-aged and dressed in fading glory, leaned nonchalantly against the nearby lamp post.

"What do you propose, then?"

"I 'appen t' live but a few street away. Why won't I take ye there and we can talk freely?"

The woman was silent for what seemed to be a very long moment.

"Indeed." - she nodded slowly - "This is a most amazingly convenient... coincidence."

* * *

"Jaheira."

Millara said the other woman's name in what was meant to be an accusing tone. She felt better now, after a hot bath and a little soup, but still somewhat light-headed.

The druid treated her with a spell to remove poison - namely, on the purpose of getting her body rid of all the alcohol she had drunk earlier this afternoon. She did nothing to cure the after-effects. Millara sipped slowly from her cup - a pale-yellow herbal tea; she dismissed the wave of childish resentment. There was the other, more important matter.

"Jaheira, you should've at least give him a chance to speak. What if..."

The druid's fork rose in the air as the woman stabbed at what was supposed to be a salmon croquette.

Fish was plentiful around here, and therefore, an affordable choice of meal for those travelling on a budget. Kitchen in the "Copper Coronet" boasted cheap and cheerful house-specials like pan-fried sprats and stewed mussels.

"Dhe best seafood chowder dis side a city." - the serving wench recited in tired, bored tone - "Hope ye'll enjoy, luv."

Millara watched the girl go in a flutter of skirts and aprons, dark braids swinging from side to side. Self-counsciously, she touched her own hair. At least they were clean now. Even though what once used to be a mass of curls reaching half down her back - vain and stubborn, she refused to wear them any shorter - now hung barely to her shoulders. Too matted and tangled, Jaheira mercilessly cut the rest with a razor.

As expected, the soup was a thin, watery affair, spiced with parsley, thyme and garlic. The portion was large and hot, though, and Millara enjoyed it indeed, dipping in bits of dark bread and spitting bones into bowl, thoughtfully provided on the side. For some reason, she doubted that the crispy-edged, battered thing on the other woman's plate ever found itself in a close proximity with fish. The smell of burned grease was revolting. The inn's main hall was busy, crowded with commoners - dock workers, petty vendors, farmers and their families who came to the city for a market day; noisy with raised voices, laughter and clatter of spoons.

They sat at the table near the back door, she and Jaheira occupying one narrow bench, Yoshimo and Minsc seated at the upturned barrels, both oddly silent. After the initial burst of outrage at their treatment back on the Promenade, the hunter seemed to fall in stupor, his eyebrows raising and forehead creasing every now and then as he stared at nothing in particular. Millara reached across the table.

"Minsc, you must eat something."

"It's fine, Millara." - Minsc set aside an empty bowl and plate - "Just thinking. Don't worry."

He looked very tired.

"He was lying through his teeth." - Jaheira repeated - "You don't know the customs of this place. I do, and I can tell you that the ones like him would promise you the sun and the moon and then-"

"He knew where to find us. About you and Khalid and-"

"Yes, and this worried me, too." - she admitted, pushing carrot around her plate - "Too much of the coincidence."

"But he said Yoshimo met him before."

Millara glanced toward the Kara-Turan. Yoshimo took a slow sip from tankard, shaking his head.

"Only in passing, young one. I told you." - he said - "I've learned a little about him from the word in the street, but-"

"Who was he?"

"He's a... A fellow in trade." - the man gave her a wry smile - "So to speak."

The half-elf nodded thoughtfully, just as Jaheira threw another dagger of a look into the Kara-Turan's direction.

It made her wonder.

"Which means, not exactly someone to be trusted." - the druid said dryly, putting fork away with a loud clang - "No offence, Yoshimo. Nothing personal."

"None taken."

"Tomorrow, we'll go to the Government District to enquire. Are you still hungry?"

"I'm fine."

"No."

"Neither I."

"Very well. You need rest, child."

Jaheira reached to rest hand on the top of her shoulder. Millara sighed, finishing her tea.

It left a faint, bitter aftertaste on her tongue.

"We all need."

* * *

"Blimey, I'm perished. Should've bring some wine."

Gaelan adjusted cloak over his shoulders.

Mirtul was most capricious this year. After the day's heat, night came unexpectedly cold and damp - sticky with fog, starless. The slanting roof offered a little comfort, slippery with lichens as it was, air heavy with chimney smoke. He squinted, peering into dirty square of the window.

The room was empty, so far.

"I presume everything went as according to whatever plan you came up with?"

The rogue grinned smugly.

"Ye're right."

Hawkeye moved to sit awkwardly by his side, drawing arms across her chest, her breath a cloud of steam. Gaelan nudged her jokingly.

"Jackass."

The girl shuddered once and leaned away.

"They'll come t' their minds soon enough."

"Sure. Now what?"

"Nothin'. Let them pike 'round the city. We'll watch and wait."


	5. Chapter 5

"Big, fat shit!"

"Millara, stop it right now."

"Shit!"

Door closed with an almighty bang.

The half-elf dived straight for a bed - messy and unmade, exactly as she had left it - kicking at the blankets with a booted feet. The wooden frame creaked in protest; Millara huffed, falling on her back and glaring viciously at the beams above.

Three days passed, and nothing turned into more nothing.

They did not learn anything new about the psychopath who held them captive in his lair.

The wall of bureaucracy they've met proven to be impermeable. They have spend many precious hours standing in quees - handwaved, ignored, being send back and forth from one city's official to another, only to land at the point they begun at. The hope she held in meeting with the Magistrate of Athkatla, Bylanna Lanulin, turned out just as vain. It didn't take her five minutes to dismiss their plea as lacking the valid point. According to her, Imoen broke the law - the circumstances didn't matter. Neither this nor how insignificant her deed was compared to the mayhem that took place on the Promenade would grant her freedom. Dealing with illegal magic users wasn't within the Magistrate's responsibility, she told them. It was all up to the Cowled Wizards.

Actually, she didn't even know where did the Cowled Wizards hold their prisoners. No one did. They were beyond the law.

Earlier in the morning, a messenger came, bringing a small bag of gems along with the letter from Khalid.

As she learned from it, he was on his way to Amn, to be expected in another few days, and they've been robbed. Someone - some smug bastard, flaunting her personally signed bonds and drafts - cleared a bank account Millara, fostering a deep distrust of institutions, reluctantly opened back in the high days of her career as the heroine of Baldur's Gate.

To a single, bloody copper.

Somehow, it failed to surprise her.

The satisfaction of announcing Jaheira 'I told you so' was a grim and short-lived one. As the other woman pointed out - in an infuriatingly stoic manner - the money she kept sewn into her good cloak's lining were gone as well, along with the said cloak.

"Bollocks!"

The boot's sole left a dirty smudge on a pillowcase. She didn't care.

Furthermore, the druid insisted on Millara keeping as low profile as possible - as if she didn't know how to disguise herself - condemning her to spending most of time in the inn hall's very darkest corners, with Minsc cast in the ungrateful role of a babysitter. In the meanwhile, Jaheira ventured out, busy with renewing some old acquaintances and looking for the contacts. Most likely, trying to get it touch with the Harpers' local branch, given she didn't share too many details.

The half-elf rebelled against it - even though she understood that the curfew has been imposed out of the concern over her safety, their safety - but only get as much as a permission to go wander around the district once. Minsc followed her quietly, trailing behind like a lost puppy - right until they stopped by a sloppy-looking marketstall. Then, all the Hells broke loose. Millara couldn't blame the ranger for his outburst, not seeing the particularly fancy armour - which, oddly enough, looked very much like the one she used to own - hanging on the rack, and, as she noticed sourly, sold at the half of the price she'd paid master Fuiruim back in Beregost.

Not that she had a right to complain, sporting fenced boots and a few other things herself. Thanks to Yoshimo, the miserable stock of her belongings had already doubled.

A sigh escaped her lips - the Kara-Turan wasn't much of a company; after spending both nights out, he was only to be seen at the breakfast time, and collapsed into bed shortly afterwards.

Also, they were being tailed. The half-elf's sixth sense told her what the eyes couldn't when she turned a split second too late, just in time to see the tenement's shadow thicken briefly; a customer taking a little too long to choose the colour of silk yarn disappear in a flutter of cape; ill-dressed children bounce off her hip only to cuss and fall back in amongst the shopping stalls well before she could grab a hold of them.

"Go then, seek yer fortune 'round the city. I's in no hurry. We'll sure meet again, sooner or later."

Millara frowned, thinking - it took her short to no time to make a connection. She had much of a good idea as to who stood behind it.

She suspected that Yoshimo, too, knew more than he appeared, but didn't get a chance to talk to him; not with Jaheira, watching them like a hawk. The druid remained pretty adamant, and argument - one of a many - that issued when the Kara-Turan halfheartedly mentioned that - since the legal ways of getting as much as an information failed - they might need to try the 'other means', was short and unpleasant.

"Of course, we would have to tread very carefully, but what choice we have left?"

"Gods, you don't know what are you talking about now! We have enough troubles to risk such an association."

"And I thought you told me that beggars can't be choosers only half an hour ago. It's not as if we're in a position to be picky, or is it?"

"Millara, you must be patient. Brash decisions won't help anyone."

"Neither will sitting on the arse. We've waited long enough."

"I'm doing what I can, child. But it all takes time, and in the meanwhile, the less they know about us and especially you, the better."

"I'm under impression that 'they' seemed to know quite a lot without me giving 'them' any pointers."

"Jaheira, listen to the young one. She's right. Besides, if they have taken the bother of seeking us out so quick, then, well, they must want something. We are on their ground. They don't suffer fools gladly, and believe me, it would be unwise at our side to-"

"Absolutely no."

They.

The "Copper Coronet" hummed with gossip, rumours spreading like a wildfire over the tankards of ale and bowls of a cheap soup, none of them comforting. People whispered about strange war on the streets, although no one ever as much as seen a skirmish. Just more and more bodies dumped into the river. All too much of a coincidence, and this was precisely why the druid did not wish them to have any involvement with the lords of Athkatla's underworld.

She could see the reason, but still.

There was a loud knock; the door opened and Jaheira appeared, dressed in a woollen cloak fastened over what looked like a man's tunic, and a loose-fitting breeches.

"I'm going out." - she announced curtly - "I probably won't be back until nightfall."

The half-elf grunted in a reply, and didn't move.

"Rest. Minsc will come to accompany you."

"Uh-huh. Just like he did today in the morning, and yesterday, and the day before."

The druid obviously chosen to pretend she didn't hear the remark.

"Are you listening? If you needed anything, just ask Bernard."

"I want _her _back." - Millara said, turning over and staring - "Do you think Bernard could fix it for me if I asked nicely?"

Door closed again - with a thud much softer than she deserved, sound of the woman's footsteps fading away as she went downstairs. Millara stayed sprawled on the bed; listening, waiting. On the other side of the thin wall, Yoshimo stirred in his sleep, the bed's frame creaking. She could hear Minsc pacing restlessly, and muffled noise coming from the inn's main hall. Golden sunrays filtered in through half-drawn curtain, the ever-changing pattern of light and shadow making up for the room's poor decor, marking a good few hours still left until the sunset.

Only a few hours.

"Better hurry up." - Millara told the ceiling, then quietly rose to her feet, crossing the floor and opening the wardrobe. She considered its contents, taking out a skirt, a simple linen shirt and a shawl. Folding the clothes neatly, she stuffed them under a pillow and bent to retrieve the medicine bag Jaheira left sitting on the footlocker.

She knew there will be no second chance to act any time soon.

* * *

"Oy! Open up, Brus!"

Another stone bounced off the wooden frame, narrowly missing the boy's head as he peeked from inside, leaning over the windowsill.

"Gods, uncle! - he snorted - "Ye nearly smashed it!"

Gaelan huffed impatiently, squinting, shielding eyes against the glaring sunshine.

"C'mon right in!" - the boy called - "Ma's out workin', an' I'm left to mind Enid. Can't leave 'till she's back."

"Then may'aps ye could let me in already!"

Brus disappered inside at once.

The rogue slouched against the wall. He could hear the bolt fell with a thud, then the door opened and he walked inside.

The kitchen was familiar; bright, ocher-painted walls, the wooden floor slightly uneven, warped, but immaculately polished. A jug filled with fresh daffodils stood on the table. Nothing seemed to change since his last visit - that was, when he was still allowed to come and go as he pleased. These days, Lizzie didn't wish him anywhere close her family, and especially not her son.

Brus was a smart eleven year old; stubborn, and with a pretty much clear life's goals set. It wasn't as if he needed any prodding, but the blame for the corruption of innocent fell on his good-for-nothing rascal of the uncle, anyway.

"Well, hello Enid. Me feet, ain't ye a grand, big girl? " - Gaelan beamed at the two-year-old, seated in her cot - "C'mon, say 'hi', won'ye?"

The girl pursed her lips, staring, not quite sure if she could trust him.

"Does she talk yet?"

"Yawp, when she feels like it. Leave her alone, now she plays coy." - Brus said - "Just as well, too, since she was tormentin' me all day before ye came. What is it ye wanted, anyways?"

"Tis' depends if ye wanna earn a few coppers."

"Shiny!" - the boy perked up - "What have ye for me?"

"A messenger's job. I need ye go find Yarin at th' "Copper Coronet."."

"That drunk?"

"Aye, but ye wouldn't want him hear ye callin' him so. He's got a bloomin' heavy hand, th' old toast." - the rogue came to sit on the table - "An' don't be tellin' him it is I who sends ye, say 'twas th' upright man."

Brus nodded eagerly, round greeny-brown eyes shining - undoubtly at the prospect of getting out.

"Tell him t' track th' dancers an' dub th' glaze in th' lockram-jawd cove's lumber. Not crack, mind ye. It's important."

"Aww, man! Ye want to bite a kin?"

Gaelan stretched lazily, hiding amused grin, and fixed his nephew with a look instead.

"None of me business, I guess." - Brus shrugged, unconcerned - "I better get movin' before Ma's back home."

* * *

"Take it easy, Minsc." - Millara turned to look at the ranger, giving him a faint smile - "I'm only going downstairs. You want wine or ale?"

Minsc still didn't look sure, ready to jump and follow her on a moment's notice. She certainly wasn't having that.

"So?"

"Ale sounds good, but-"

"Aww, c'mon. Unless poor Bernard is really a man-hunter, plotting to lock me up in his kitchen to slave over the week's load of dirty dishes... Joking here!" - she added hastily, seeing the big man's eyes grow wide - "I'll be right back."

The ranger nodded.

The hall was quiet - the usual crowd didn't gather just yet. In the corner, two men dressed respectively in scarlet and blue stood with their fiddles ready, waiting only for the public; a gnome couple in travelling garb occupied the table in the very centre; an old woman with a pipe complained about the outrageous price of grain.

At the bar, Bernard busied himself with a soggy cloth, dragging it across the countertop, its surface scratched and worn from the years of use. She spotted an unfinished glass of brandy, sitting within the man's hand's reach. Judging from the merry twinkle in the eye and a slightly reddened nose, it wasn't the first he downed today.

"Heya."

"Well, hello there. As always, a delight to see. What's your poison?" - Bernard grinned - "A mug of warm milk and a jam bake to go with it, mayhaps? Hah, hah!"

Following the bad example set by Jaheira, the innkeep treated her like a kid, making patronising remarks and shooing her away when she asked too many questions. It left her with no other choice than to play along, treating him to the best impression of a bratty half-pint she could manage.

"I'll have an ale." - Millara said with dignity - "Anything new going on?"

"Lemme think... Nay, although according to Aileen, some cheeky bird broke to the pantry just this morning, and mixed sugar with a baking powder in all her jars. Did you happen to know anything about it?"

"Nope." - she shook her head, deadpan - "And here I was, wondering why's my porridge fizzy."

"Nothing worse than idle hands, I'm telling you. Want to sweep the floor and help us with the stove? Gods know, it would use a bit of good, old cleaning."

"Well, I'm afraid you've barred me from entering the kitchen yesterday."

With a bored expression, Millara leaned over the counter, watching the innkeep fuss over the keg's leaking tap.

"In a clean glass, if it's not a problem."

"My glasses are always clean, hear me, you brazen hussie? Always!"

Not spilling a drop, the half-elf dodged a blow intended to land on her backside. Bernard sighed, mock-shaking the rag in his hand as she turned away and strolled into the corridor.

She stopped at the dimly lit landing - a cramped space littered with spare barrels, crates of foodstuff covered in a brown paper, broken furnishing collecting dust and cobwebs as it waited for someone to come and fix it.

A fiddlers' contest seemed to begin, people cheering loudly.

Millara listened for a second or two, then from her pocket, she produced a small vial. The liquid was dark, bitter-smelling.

_I'm sorry, Minsc._

Blinking away the stinging regret, she continued upstairs.

* * *

"The upright man, really?"

The dark-haired boy stood before him - nodding, rocking on his heels, both hands tucked in a too big coat's pockets.

Yarin brushed breadcrumbs off his sleeve.

He looked vaguely familiar - a whipper-snapper barely out of the swaddling clothes, half-flash and half-foolish, but puffed up like a yearling cockerel on a manure heap.

"Aye. Says ye's to find the knave's that be snackin' with the white-haired wench slum, twice up the dancers, an'-"

"I hear ye, young lad. Dub not crack, and all.""

Yarin sighed wistfully.

It's been a long time.

"What's yer name, kiddey?"

"Brus."

He nodded to himself, looking into near-empty tankard.

Of course.

He should've guessed straight away.

How long since he had done a last jig, he couldn't remember. The rumours reached his ears, alright, but he only listened out of the habit. He didn't care. The days seemed to stretch to no end, then suddenly whizz past him as on their own accord, with whole weeks swallowed in a booze-fueled haze, wasted on waiting for something that was not meant to happen.

Once upon a time, Yarin had a dream. He never had the nerve to chase it. Now, he was but an antiquated cull - an empty gourd, the wine's long gone. The saying had it right.

Better to be snuffed than fade away. Who told him that, he couldn't remember.

"Mister? Ye's all grand, ain't ye?"

Yarin looked at his hands, fingers red and knobbly. He would need another drink if he was to do anything. It was still early.

"Listen up, Brus. How 'bout that: I'll finish me pint whilst ye rattle up, and let us know when the feller's off to dunegan?" - he said wearily - "I would use a shoulder-sham, and a rum pair a glimms, too."

The boy grinned, revealing uneven teeth.

"Shiny!"

"One more thing, kiddey." - Yarin stared into his drink - "When we're done, ye go and tell yer 'upright man' that I'm plastered, with a square intention of stayin' plastered right 'till the end of me days, and that if he canna' be arsed to come see me, I don't wanna any of ye darkening me door, too, ever again."

* * *

Millara regarded herself in the mirror, hastily applying the final touch of a kohl.

The disguise was nearly perfect - simple clothes and a basket filled with groceries should allow her to pass for a servant who came home on her day off, or maybe a housewife running errands, and the skirt's folds concealed twin daggers and not quite appropriate boots both. She was ready.

There were two problems that worried her, though.

Firstly, there wasn't many slum dwellers descending from the fair folk. If nothing else, this would surely make her stand out in the crowd. Millara gathered hair into a messy knot, leaving loose strands to fall over her face, and wrapped a shawl around her head.

Minsc slept sprawled on her bed - his mouth open, breathing softly in a drug-induced slumber. It worked faster than expected; the ranger was out within mere minutes, and should stay asleep for hours. She had to put more than just a few drops of the tincture into his ale - being a healer, Jaheira made her potions differently, using much smaller quantities of passionflower and poppy than Millara did, and entirely skipping dogwood bark in favour of valerian, skullcap and wild lettuce .

She pulled the shawl a bit lower.

Her reflection stared back from the mirror; face anxious, dark liner making her irises look wrong, unnatural; a golden-yellow of a predatory beast's eyes. Just like her late brother's.

Hungry.

Milara blinked, banishing the thought; there was no time to wash off the make-up. She needed to focus.

The second big concern was her speech.

The half-elf doubted her ability to imitate the Athkatlan low-class accent, and the city people were a suspicious lot, she learned it all too well. Sometimes, one careless word was enough to put them off. She couldn't afford that.

If she was to find Gaelan Bayle, she will need to talk and ask many, many questions.

"Tain't goin' to be easy."

With a sigh, Millara adjusted blanket over the sleeping man's shoulders and went for the window, threw her basket out, and then - cursing the slippery shingles and a skirt that got caught around her ankle - climbed down the gutterpipe.

* * *

"No need to fidget, dear friend. We were just passing by, and I thought it will be nice to say hello."

To be honest, Yoshimo wasn't exactly comforted.

Not with the glass panel gone missing from its frame, and especially not with the fact it was only possible to unscrew it from inside.

He woke up, alarmed, to a slight breeze touching his skin. Minsc was out - probably went down to the main hall to accompany Millara - and although the ranger's restless pacing was so far unbearable, for once he regretted his absence.

The window was barred, preventing the dark-haired girl from entering the room, and her hands were empty. Still and all, he didn't like neither the sight of a loaded crossbow, placed casually across the scout's lap, nor the armed strangers who backed her - an elven man, watching him impassively, and another woman, a blonde with badly scarred face.

He didn't have any doubts as to their identity. Not for a second.

"Aren't you going to invite us in? I jest, of course. I see you don't trust our good will." - the girl grinned - "A shame, too. Truly."

"Indeed."

"The boss sends you his best regards. He's very concerned." - she cocked her head - "It would appear rude, to not go and thank him, don't you think?"

Keeping his face carefully neutral, Yoshimo nodded.

"When the time is right, perhaps."

"Certainly, although loitering around won't help your case. How does it go, this saying? Pay your respects to the neighbouring dragon, well before the dragon decides to visit you?"

She wasn't smiling now.

"So, how is the business?"

"Not much of a progress. I did not... I need more time to reason with them." - the Kara-Turan said defensively - "I'm sure he's aware of that."

"Oh, he is. It's the only reason why you're still breathing with both of your lungs intact, Yoshimo."

The scout looked at him with cool blue eyes, her slim fingers stroking the crossbow's shaft in what wasn't even a barely concealed threat anymore.

"You are expected to show up within the next three days, and being in your fancy boots, I wouldn't want to fuck it up. Bring the girl along." - she added - "The word is, Renal would absolutely love to meet her."

Yoshimo felt his jaw clench. He sat up abruptly.

"What are you playing at now?" - he hissed - "This wasn't mentioned earlier!"

The scout shrugged.

"Well, things had changed. You're not the one to make demands. Sad as it is, had you not pissed into a jug, you wouldn't have to drink it."

"My deeds are mine only." - Yoshimo said slowly - "Saying which, I would rather not have my companion endangered by my own-"

"Folly?" - she suggested in a pleasant tone - "Please, don't be looking at me like that. Bloodscalp really means her no harm. Yet. But he might choose to change his mind very fast, just as well. Do you think you can afford your honour to take a blow like this? Or risk your remaining friends learning all about your dirty little secrets, hmm?"

He said nothing.

The girl barked a laugh; the sound of it brittle, tinny.

"I just thought so. We shall bid you farewell, but before, I believe this is something you will appreciate."

She shifted into a crouch, taking a small, wrapped parcel from the elf's hands and pushing it toward the window. It clattered against the bars.

"There, friend. Open it, would you?"

The Kara-Turan tore off embossed mullberry paper. He had a pretty good idea as to what the gift was; with the strangers watching him expectantly, he might as well be done with it.

He wasn't mistaken.

The box itself was a plain, dark wood, but the bauble it held inside looked like a rare piece of the art indeed; its frame made of carved lapis lazuli twined with a fine silver wirework, the Luskan crystalline glass perfect.

Yoshimo nodded, not quite trusting his voice. He set the hourglass on his palm, watching the sand flow, glittering.

Fast.

* * *

"Ye're wasting time."

Millara couldn't disagree.

All she'd managed so far was to get rid of three silver pieces. With these, she bought a pocket-sized mortar and pestle to replace the one she'd lost, set of a glass vials, and a small quantity of dried herbs.

The prices of the latter were a daylight robbery.

"It's seven silvers and we have a deal, or ye can go push yer luck elsewhere."

"Are yeh mad?" - she hissed - "It's a bloomin', genuine pearl!"

"Aye, if ye say so. It ain't worth a copper, though, lying in yer pocket, or is it?"

The man snorted, staring at her insolently with a pale greeny eyes, one hand propped up behind his head. Millara felt her teeth grind in a barely contained annoyance, but replied with a sweetest smile she could manage.

"How's that fer a deal, I'll sell it fer a fiver and yeh will answer a question or two? Yeh see, I'm looking fer someone."

The man raised an eyebrow.

"Ah? And this someone be..?"

"I's looking fer a man." - the half-elf chosen to ignore the sleazy grin that instantly spread across his face - "Going under the name Gaelan Bayle, or the like."

She couldn't quite believe her luck when he nodded somberly, indicating for her to come closer. She leaned toward him; hot, rum-laced breath tickled her face.

As it turned out, she was right.

"Lookit now, I dunno yer fellow." - the man said, running a fingertip along her jawline - "But what about that, I'll give ye seven for the pearl there, and a fiver for a half an hour yer time?"

Millara recoiled as if bitten by a horsefly.

"Not on yer nelly!" - she screamed on the top of her lungs - "Yeh dirty, filthy, no good bastard! Hope yeh die roaring! Yeh-"

He spat at the ground, shrugging.

"Long-eared slut."

Millara stormed off, fuming, people staring after her. Behind the stall, she stumbled onto the flower seller - a woman in a flat cap over tied mouse-brown hair, and a frayed navy coat - almost knocking the basket out her hands.

"I'm sorry!"

"Ah! Th' curse, are ye blind? Ye nearly wasted the lot o' them, ye did!"

The woman left, muttering under her breath.

She made a circle around the district, and then another, tracing the route they've taken the other night, getting frantic with every passing minute. She collapsed there, near the dingy passageway smelling of piss and mold. This was where they stood, and this alley was a shortcut leading straight to the "Copper Coronet."

What was that Minsc told her the man said? That he lived nearby, but a few streets away.

Millara walked down through another block, looking around in frustration, taking in the rows of ramshackle huts, squeezed tight, built one on the top of another; the stairs and walking planks rickety, rotten, gutters below overflowing. A shanty-town. She tried to hide her chagrin, aware of the inhabitants watching her more or less openly, their glances curious, wary.

It could've been just about everywhere.

Her heart fluttered nervously, all the unanswered questions she tried to supress filling her mind anew. What if Jaheira was right and it was only a bluff, intended to part them with their coin? Could it be the stranger simply changed his mind? He knew where they were staying, he'd shown them to the inn himself - she happened to come around about that time. If he indeed wanted something in exchange for whatever knowledge he had, he wouldn't have troubles to contact them. Yet, he never did.

She frowned at the memory - she wasn't even sure how he looked like, tired and weak as she was, fighting just to stay counscious, blinded by the inn's bright lights when he took off - too fast - disappearing in the night.

She was hunting a shadow.

Leaving the shanties behind, Millara walked slowly toward the busier street, jostled by the passers-by rushing and milling all around her, trying to avoid stepping in horse droppings and the worst of the muddy pools, scanning the surroundings with a sinking feeling of a failure. She plopped on a low wall overlooking the bay, near the stairs that led down to the Docks, letting out a discouraged sigh. The vast expance of Sea of Swords shimmered, sun a burning globe painting the water gold and scarlet, boats scattered here and there.

Only a little over an hour was left until the sunset.

A middle-aged woman came to rest nearby, setting a wicker basket on the ground. Millara watched her hike up skirts and adjust thick woolen socks that rolled down at her ankles, recognizing the flower seller she'd stumbled upon earlier on.

"Tis' a fair eve, innit?"

The half-elf nodded, huddling and drawing knees close to her chest. There was a cold breeze from the sea, bringing in the salty smell of kelp. Below, the dock workers laughed and cursed, singing as they unloaded the evening catch. Birds fought over scraps, filling air with flutter of white and grey wings, their screams shrill and outraged.

The woman said something; Millara shook her head, smiling apologetically.

"Excuse me?"

"A buncha violets to cheer ye? It's me last."

"How much?"

"Nay a coin. Ye take it, then I'm good an' free to go home."

She accepted a small posy, burying nose into flowers, their leaves limp and wilting.

"Thank you."

"Ye're welcome, pet. Gods know, I must've sold ten thousand bunches today. Them boots left grooves all over the district, I tells ye."

"Isn't the north side a better business?"

"Ah, stop it!" - the flower seller snorted - "If only! Them lot wouldn't spare a steam off their piss if their own mother was on fire!"

She nodded vigorously, remembering how the officials treated them not too long ago.

"Hatched-faced fops."

"Aye, they would make ye think ye're a bad smell!"

The half-elf squinted in the bright light. It was actually nice, to just sit, making a small talk. Back in Candlekeep, she used to gawk and - if she wasn't feeling shy that day - chat up patrons at the bar, soldiers at their posts, every peasant and merchant coming to trade, visitors who travelled the great lenghts to see the treasures of the world's most famous library. It drove the monks crazy.

Now - if nothing else - it made her feel ordinary again. A little there was left in her life she could call normal.

"So, what brings ye to Athkatla, work?" - the woman regarded her curiously, taking the cap off - "I saw ye potterin' around the place with that at-wits-end look on yer face. A northerner, ain't ye?"

"Yeah."

She sighed; she must have been doing a poor show, indeed.

"Ye need to be careful." - the flower seller said, looking serious - "Them streets can be very rough."

"I know that."

"Hope ye're havin' a place to stay? It's dangerous after the nightfall, more so for a young lass. People gone missing. There're slavers on the prowl, they say."

"No, it's okay, I have a room. I was just looking for someone, is all." - she rested head on her knees, absentmindedly chewing on a loose strand of her hair -"I... I've met a man not too long ago, and I hoped... He said he will help me, but now, he disappeared right like a stone in a well."

"I don't expect ye knows him well, eh?"

"No."

"Ilmater be merciful, ye poor thing. Them louts, always on a lookout to bring the girl down the wrong path." - the woman huffed in disgust - "Promise ye moon an' the stars, then leave ye to fend for yerself. Go an' see aul missus Cragmoon over at the bridges. She can be gettin' rid of it for ye, well before anyone gets wiser."

"What do you mean?"

The woman gave her a quick all-over glance.

"Ye got yerself in troubles, did ye not?"

Millara stared, with her eyes wide and face growing hot, quite taken aback; the woman seemed to take her stunned silence for a yes.

"Troubles." - she said, pointing vaguely at her midsection - "With yer man."

The half-elf nodded, making no effort to correct her, at once hopeful and working hard to not let the hope rise too high - she'd only asked so many times today, to no avail. But this woman seemed friendly enough, and there was no harm in trying anyway. Just another lie. Swallowing the lump that seemed to form in the back of her throat, she rattled the same line like a well-learned lesson.

"Please, can you help me? The name he'd given me was Gaelan Bayle, and if you-"

Millara didn't expect the woman to grab her by wrist, fingers squeezing so hard it was nearly painful. She supressed the strong, instinctive urge to kick, to break free of her hold, letting her other hand hang limp where it was but a second earlier - clenched around the hidden blade's handle.

Slowly, she exhaled, her heart giving an anxious lurch as she the woman blinked. The look on her face was peculiar, almost embarassed, and her gaze could have make the milk curdle. It wasn't directed at her, though.

"Listen, pet. Are ye sure ye got it right? That feller's name?"

She nodded.

"Yes. Do you-"

"Does I knows him?" - the woman hissed, rising and roughly pulling Millara to her feet - "Like a bad copper I do, the lazy gobshite! He's me own bleedin' brother!"

Millara bit at her lip, mouthing a silent but fervent prayer to Tymora.

It seemed that against all odds, she had found the man. Now, she hoped he would be still willing to help - and that he had a sense of humour.

* * *

"I'm really not sure, Jaheira. More tea?"

Ribald the Barterman - once known as Ribald the Adventurer - pointed at the gracefully curved kettle.

A very fine, very expensive eastern porcelain, as Jaheira noticed. The man had always liked his bit of luxury. Now that he had settled down, it became even more pronunciated - his clothes were a little extravagant and Ribald became - if not quite fat, for there was no such thing as fat elvenkin - kind of fleshy. His eyes remained keen, though, missing nothing; a proof that behind the dandy's decorum, his mind was as sharp as ever.

He rocognised her as soon as she set a toe in his shop.

They occupied Ribald's tastefully arranged office at the "Adventurer's Mart's" back - a snug place with thick, soft carpets and comfortable furnishing, full of antiques, books, maps and ornate weaponry that held the reminder of it's owner's turbulent past.

"In any other situation, I would call it unwise, to shrug off a hand reaching to help you."

The druid took a slow sip from her cup, the flavour of bergamot lingering on her tongue.

"The truth is, if anyone knows or can learn of your friend's whereabouts, or that crazy mage for that matter, it's them." - Ribald said - "Alas, if you decided to get... involved right now, you're going to earn a dubious ally and a sure enemy."

Jaheira sighed.

"Tell me something I don't know already. All these rumours... I don't understand, who could possibly challenge the Shadow Thieves on their own ground?"

"It worries me, too. Not that I would be sorry to see them go, but they owned Athkatla for the whole decades. I would suspect some assassin upstarts, but this other guild, they are too..." - the merchant bit on his lip, frowning - "I won't call them chaotic, but since the dawn of the time, thieves had robbed and what have you, for the profit. Simple as that. Yet, there's no profit in what they do here. It makes no sense."

"We got to live in the interesting times."

"Bah. I only moved on to get some well deserved peace, and instead, got caught between the rock and a hard place." - Ribald said with a huff - "I can only hope it will all end soon enough. Interesting times are bad for the business, I'm telling you."

"I can't recall you being so grumpy."

"Look who's talking! You were hardly the most exuberant lass I knew. Too serious and-"

"Focus." - Jaheira said, deadpan.

"Heh, a good one. Now it sure does sound more like you."

The man cracked a grin, picking a strawberry from a fruit plate, and gesturing for Jaheira to help herself. She settled for a pear, its skin waxy under her fingertips.

"Well, given that I came to seek advice, I wouldn't want to overstay my welcome."

"You're not quite there yet, my dear."

She nodded with a small smile.

"I'm glad to hear that. What about this Cornelius fellow you have mentioned before?"

"He's a shifty, greasy rat." - Ribald snorted - "No harm in trying, mind you. I could imagine he would be more than willing to help, if presented with the right means of persuasion."

"But of course. And how much 'means' stand for these days?"

"Oh, this I don't know exactly. I pay him two whole grand each month, just to keep the cowled bastards off my tail. In your case, I'd expect it will be much more."

Jaheira stared at the end of her braid.

"I don't think we can afford it right now. It's a lot of money."

Ribald's expression turned a little wry.

"Talking about which, if you wanted to-"

"I don't mix my friendships with business, for a first thing, and I didn't come to ask you for a credit." - Jaheira said, keeping her voice cool - "If that's what you were going to say."

The silence stretched uncomfortably. Finally, the druid rose from the chair, gathering her cloak, and adjusting a blade strapped to her hip. A hand came down to gently land on her shoulder.

"It was good to see you again." - the man sighed - "A pity the circumstances are as they are."

"True."

"I'll have Tarieii to walk you back to the inn."

"No need for that, it's not far. But thank you."

"Jaheira, wait."

She frowned as Ribald walked to the wall, taking the sheathed scimitar off its rack, then turned back to her, grinning.

"Ahnvathil, the Night's Bane."

Jaheira's eyebrows shot up.

"To my best knowledge, the blade is made of silversteel."

When she didn't make a move, too startled to say anything, the merchant rolled his eyes, nonchalantly dumping it into her arms.

"See, this baby was idle far too long. I'll wager she'd just love to have a bite of some ogre's arse again. Not likely to happen in my company, I'm afraid."

"Ribald, I can't accept such a gift."

"Ah, and rightly so." - he winked - "Because I expect you to pay it off when you are solid on your feet again, and the things calm down a little. How's that?"

Jaheira leaned to clasp hands with the man.

"You are irreformable. A pearl to you, Ribald."

"Aye, my dear. And to you."

* * *

"Brus!"

A rushed shuffle of feet in the porch came most unexpected.

"Uh-oh, screwed up." - Brus whistled, swinging his legs in a gleeful anticipation of the scene just about to issue - "I's right 'ere, Ma!"

The rogue glanced around, considering the nearest escape route. It was already too late.

He settled for removing his legs from the table just as Lizzie power-walked into the kitchen, stopping dead in her tracks the very second she'd spotted him. Gaelan gave her a sheepish smile - he even didn't have to pretend, not with Lizzie's eyes screaming a bloody murder.

"Well!" - she spat - "Just look what the cat dragged in!"

"Hello, sis. It's sure been too long, eh?"

He felt his face go blank with surprise just as another woman, small and thin - a girl, and a very particular girl at that - quietly slipped inside.

Lizzie propped one hand against her hip; a picture of forced calm right before all the Hells break loose. She didn't answer, motioning to her son instead.

"Brus, get out. Now."

The boy rose to his feet without a word, and left, not bothering as much as to retrieve his cap. Still a little dumbstruck, Gaelan watched his sister place the other hand on the top of the girl's shoulder - at which, he noticed, the Bhaalspawn seemed to crumple.

"Anythin' ye wanted to tell me?" - Lizzie demanded - "Ye's knowin' this girl? Not a word a lie, now."

He thought of it for a second or two, covering confusion with yet another grin.

"Aye, 'tis be miss puke-on-me-boots." - the rogue turned to look at the girl - "What a crack. So ye found me, eh?"

The half-elf's head snapped up. Her expression - remarkably apologetic above all else, and the word she kept mouthing - one that looked oddly like 'sorry' - made him wonder.

Ever so more when the wicker basket came flying, whooshing through the kitchen's lenght and missing him by a mere inches.


End file.
